I ask the Sun flying across the sky – Is this what they call time?
That events should trample like crazy elephants over all human consciousness?
That each question should be no more than an error of absorption in thought?
Why are we retold the same old joke every time?
Why do they say we live?
Think for a moment – How many here have anything to do with the thing called life?
What kind of God’s mercy is that which falls alike on hands cracked and bleeding from weeding a field of wheat and on the pulpy bodies stretched on divans in a marketplace?
Why is it that a loud-crying silence lies frozen on faces besieged by the noise of ox bells and of engines drawing water?
Who is it that devours the fried fish of biceps of dreams chopped with swaths on fodder-choppers?
Why does the peasant in my village beg for mercy from a mere police constable? Why is it that every time someone being crushed shrieks the cry is disposed of as a poem? I ask the Sun that flies across the sky.